


Sandbox + Gunshots

by Captain_Kieren



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, Army, Blood, Bombs, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medical Procedures, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Team Bonding, Team as Family, Whump, Whumptober, army fic, sandbox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kieren/pseuds/Captain_Kieren
Summary: Early in their partnership, Mac and Jack get in trouble while disarming an IED in Afghanistan.OrThe one where Jack really shouldn't have left Mac unguarded.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 105





	Sandbox + Gunshots

**_A F G H A N I S T A N . . ._ **

**_1 3 D A Y S U N T I L T H E E N D O F J A C K ‘ S T O U R_ **

It’s the middle of the damn night when they’re rousted from their bunks and informed of an IED in a village nearby.

He and Mac dress as quickly as they can in the dark, pulling on vests, boots, and helmets. Jack grabs his rifle and, as they’re headed outside to transport, does his automatic checks of the weapon. They pile into the Humvee; Jack is driving.

“Man,” he complains, shivering from the cool desert air blowing in from the vents. “How does anyone find an IED in the middle of the damn night?”

“If I had to venture a guess…the little red lights?” Mac is looking straight ahead, and so is Jack, but he can hear the grin on the punk’s face.

“Oh, yeah. Real cute, smartass,” Jack mumbles, only half as annoyed as he sounds. In fact, the kid’s not all that bad. He’s a know-it-all, that’s for sure. And he’s got a mouth on him that… _oh,_ it _needs_ a punching… But a decent part of the time, he’s not bad company. He’s quiet, which is good sometimes – like right now.

Mac just smirks and goes digging in his pocket. When his hands come out, he’s got a paper clip, which he starts unfolding.

Jack peers sideways a couple times before asking. “What’s that?”

Mac looks at the paper clip, then at Jack. He must have woken up on the smart-ass side of the bed because he sucks a breath through his teeth and says, “Oh, Jack. If you’ve never seen a paper clip before now, wait until I tell you about staples.”

Jack huffs. “I _meant_ why are you messin’ around with a paper clip?”

Mac is grinning again, his shoulders shaking in a silent laugh at Jack’s expense, but it’s a good-natured chuckle. “I don’t know,” he says, kind of lamely. “Just something to keep my hands busy. Helps me think.”

“Oh, well, good. You can use all the help you can get with that.”

Mac opens his mouth in feigned offense, but before they can really get into one of their sparring sessions, Jack slows the Humvee to a stop. The tires crunch in loose gravel and sand. He switches off the headlights, plunging them into darkness.

There are houses with lights on, but only a few. Most windows are dark, most doors shut for the night. The streets are deserted.

“Intel says the IED’s hidden in an abandoned house.” Mac steps out of the car. “That’s got to be it.” He points dead-ahead, toward a clearly dilapidated structure with sloping walls and a door that’s half off its hinges and squeaking in the night breeze.

“Yeah, all right. Tell you what; let’s clear the structure and secure the bomb, then I’m gonna start knocking on doors, let the villagers know to evacuate.”

“Good idea,” Mac says, following Jack closely. That’s the rule when they’re in the field. The kid can mouth off, and spout his dumb science facts, and make all the weird contraptions he wants out of the junk laying around – but when they’re in a potentially hostile environment, he sticks to Jack like glue. No more scamperin’ off on his own.

Like _glue._

Jack is first into the building. He nudges the door the rest of the way open, flipping on his rifle’s flashlight and using it to sweep the interior of the pitch-black house. “Clear,” he says, moving inside.

“Watch your step,” Mac advises, quiet but stern. “We don’t know what we’re working with yet.”

Jack darts his eyes down, but the floor is bare. Nothing for pressure plates to be hidden under. No trip wires. He keeps moving forward.

It’s a simple house. Table, chairs, wicker sofa. A corner end table with a box TV.

“Clear.”

He starts down the hallway. His boots slip in dust, cobwebs catching on his helmet. Behind him, Mac is spitting; he must have got some in his mouth.

There are two doors, both ajar.

Jack nudges the one to his left while Mac hovers on his shoulder, eyes alert for signs of the bomb. It’s a kitchen. Dark countertops wrap around one side, a black stove and a metal sink on the other.

“Clear,” Jack says, backing out of the room with Mac on his heels. Next, they go to the right, Mac pushing the door open carefully but obediently waiting for Jack to go first. _Looks like the kid’s finally learning._

A bedroom. Two narrow beds pushed against the walls, a thick carpet (which he avoids stepping on or even near), a couple tables with benches, a wardrobe. A deck of cards on the table. Some more cobwebs.

“Clear. No sign of this IED. You sure this is the right house?”

With the house clear of hostiles, Mac is released from his metaphoric adhesion to Jack’s side. He crosses the hall into the kitchen. “There’s a lot of storage space in here,” he remarks, kneeling by the cupboards with his own flashlight. Running light fingers around the edges of the cabinet doors, Mac pops one open and looks inside. It must be empty because he turns to Jack with a shrug. “It’s gonna take me a while to search all these. Why don’t you go ahead with evac?”

“Naw, that’s gonna be a hard negative, kid. I stay with you until the IED is located, remember?”

“Jack, it’s in this house somewhere; I feel it. It’s just a matter of searching through a bunch of cupboards.” The kid gives him a look as he gestures to the empty structure. “No hostiles in the area. I’m fine here. Go warn the villagers.”

Jack sighs, but he knows the kid is right. There haven’t been sightings of hostiles in this area for months, and the much more immediate threat is the bomb hidden in this house. But still, it must have been put here by somebody, right? And that somebody might just be hanging around in the hopes getting a jump on scrawny, blonde bomb-geeks like Mac.

But the house is clear, that’s for sure.

“Come on, Jack,” Mac presses, running his fingers around the edges of the next cabinet door. “It’s a lot easier to disarm bombs when I know messing up only costs me _my_ life.”

“And mine,” he grumbles back.

Mac peers sideways at him, smirking. “Yeah, and yours.”

Finally, he gives in with a dramatic sigh. “All right, fine. Whatever. I mean, you didn’t have to agree so damn fast. I’d rather _not_ die in a ball of fire, you know?”

Mac hums, popping open the next door and looking inside. Must be empty. He sighs, wipes the sweat from his brow. “Then you’d better get a move on with evac. Like I said, this job’s a lot easier to concentrate on when I’m not worried about innocents.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack turns and strides back through the house the way they came in.

* * *

He knocks on a lot of doors that night, stumbling through his limited knowledge of the language, and being met with a lot of groggy, confused faces. Most people are easy to convince, and most recognize “IED” even without it being translated. They grab what they can hold, grab their loved ones, and book it for the minimum safe distance.

Others are…not so easily persuaded.

Jack is in a conversation with one of those lovely gentlemen right now, as a matter of fact. He’s doing his best to stay cool and professional, but there’s only so much a guy can take getting screamed at – especially from someone he’s trying _rescue._

“Listen, dude,” Jack says, not even trying to speak the language anymore. It’s not helping, and this guy either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care anyway. “My partner’s in that building right now.” He jabs a finger at the house Mac is in, taking a quick moment to scan the surroundings and clear is visually before turning back. “He’s an expert with IEDs and if he says you’ve gotta go, then you’ve gotta go! Don’t make this job any harder on him than it needs to be.”

The guy just keeps yelling though. Waving his hands and giving Jack warning shoves that are getting harder and harder to ignore.

He ain’t gonna listen. And Jack can’t force him to evacuate if he refuses – so, officially sick and tired of dealing with him, Jack gives up and walks away.

“Whatever, man,” he yells back. “Don’t blame me if you end up going ka-boom.”

_BANG!_

Jack’s body cringes so hard he almost hits the dirt. But that wasn’t an explosion; that was a gunshot. A close one.

The villagers he convinced to leave are screaming, sprinting out of town on foot, dragging each other, carrying children.

_Oh, God…_

_Mac._

_Mac!_

He pushes through the crowd, shouting, yelling for them to get their heads down. Gun drawn, Jack sprints for the house.

_Oh, Christ, why did I leave him?_

Jack kicks open the front door, leveling his rifle at the figure in the hall. In the glare of his flashlight, he makes out short hair, dark-colored clothes, a scarf around his mouth.

“HANDS!” Jack booms. “SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”

The gunman is shocked. He didn’t know Mac had overwatch, that much is obvious. Almost on instinct, he drops the .9mm in his hand. It hits the floor with a hollow _clunk_.

“On your knees. Now!” Jack surges forward, knocking the shooter down. “Mac? _Mac?_ Talk to me, man. You alive in there?”

“Ahh…yeah. I’m alive…”

Jack finishes zip-tying the gunman’s wrists, then quickly sweeps the rest of the house for activity, but they’re alone. It’s clear.

He thumps into the kitchen, dropping to his knees beside Mac.

_Oh, man…_

The kid’s on his back in a puddle of blood, fatigues stained red. His face is white, spatters of crimson on his chin and neck.

There’s a nickel-sized hole punched through his left shoulder, just barely missing his vest. His chest is rising and falling too fast, every breath a painful grind.

Jack doesn’t even hear himself calling it in. MedEvac is on its way, but it’s gonna take some time.

“Hey. Hey, man.” Jack steps over him, moving to his injured side. “I’m gonna put pressure on this, okay?”

Mac is squirming, but he nods.

“And it’s gonna hurt like a son of bitch, all right? You ready?”

“Yeah—yeah, do it.”

Jack pushes down on the wound, lightly at first, then harder as blood keeps gushing out under his gloves.

Mac’s agonized whimpers eventually tear into a full-blown scream.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, man.”

“ _Ahhh,_ it’s okay!” Mac grunts through his teeth. His whole body is writhing, almost convulsing as it rides through the waves of pain. “You’ve gotta do it, I know!”

“No, I’m sorry I left you,” Jack says. He’s shaking on the inside, and doing his best not to let himself shake on the outside. He needs a steady hand. “It’s my job to protect you. I shouldn’t have left.”

The sound Mac makes it heartbreaking, and Jack doesn’t even hardly like the kid half the time. “Don’t—” He whines, fisting the kitchen rug. “I told you to go.”

Leave it to Angus MacGyver to be arguing two minutes after getting shot.

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have listened…”

Mac’s eyes open. They’re too bright, brimming with pain. “Where’s the—”

“The asshole? Cuffed outside.”

He nods minutely, sucking in another shaky breath. “Sorry…” he says, squeezing his eyes closed again. “I was focused on… I didn’t hear him come in.”

“Hey, now, don’t you worry about it. But, ah, come to think of it…” Jack glances side to side. “Where’s the IED? You ever find it?”

“Yeah…” Mac turns his head to the side.

Jack follows his gaze. From inside one of the cabinets, a blinking red light knifes through the darkness. Jack shifts uncomfortably.

“Did you manage to disarm it before…?”

Mac gasps at another wave of misery. “No,” he chokes out. “But I was close…”

“That’s all right. That is A-OK. I’m just gonna call base camp and let ‘em know, all right? I’ll have them send out another squad.”

“No—” Mac shakes his head. His blonde hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat. “I have to finish disarming it myself.”

“What?” Jack almost lets go of the wound in his shock. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because…” Mac is panting, his eyes half-lidded. “It’s hard enough to disarm a bomb when you get to start fresh, make all the calculations and judgements for yourself… But picking up after someone has already started? Increases the likelihood of…of, uh…”

His eyes roll as he starts to fade.

Jack startles. “Wha—HEY! No, sir! No, sirree! Mac, you wake up, _right now_! You hear me? MAC!”

He comes around a second later, groaning, his face twisting up. “I’m good…”

“Sure, hoss. You with me?”

A weak nod, followed by his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. “Let me up…”

“No.”

Glassy, blue eyes cut at him. “Jack. Let me up.”

“You’re bleeding out, Mac. I need to keep pressure on the wound or you’re gonna go out, fast.”

“I have to finish disarming the IED.”

“No offense, pal, but I wouldn’t trust you on mop duty right now. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I’m awake,” he argues. “But I won’t be soon, which is why I need to finish now.”

“Let another squad take care of it!”

“I already told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘increases the likelihood we all go ka-blooey’ and blah, blah. But here’s another piece of the equation you’re not taking into account, there, buddy: what happens if you pass out just as you’re about to cut the wire, huh? I don’t think bombs react well to people keelin’ over on top of them!”

“Jack—”

“No. Now, that’s an _order_ , Mac. Lay still. Let this be someone else’s problem.”

“ _Jack_.”

“What!”

Mac’s hand covers Jack’s, pulling them away with a surprising amount of strength. He starts pushing himself up, but it’s a painfully slow process. “I’m serious,” he says, breathing heavily. “I’m not going to pass out on top of the bomb. I have to do this.”

He pushes Jack away with a hand squarely on his chest.

“I can do this…” Mac rolls onto his knees, bracing himself for a moment before he starts moving back toward the IED. Blood is running out of his shoulder like water. It’s not gushing, which mean it didn’t nick an artery—thank God—but it’s still too much. Too fast.

He opens the cabinet door and ducks his head and arms inside, breathing heavily as he gets back to work.

Behind him, Jack gets up, gripping his rifle. “Son of a bitch,” he growls at the kid’s back. “You’re _nuts_ , you know that?”

“Keep it down, Jack,” Mac grumbles. “I need to focus.”

Yeah.

Oh yeah, one of these days, buddy. Jack is gonna _murder_ this brat.

* * *

It doesn’t take Mac as long as usual to disarm the bomb. About ten minutes later, there’s a satisfying _snip_ of scissors on wire and a soft clicking sound that tells Mac the IED is disarmed.

Slowly, grunting, he backs away from the cabinet, rolling onto his back. Jack strides into the kitchen from his post in the hall, keeping his eye on the perp. The kid is ghostly pale, almost glowing in the dark.

“Okay,” he gasps, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. “It’s done.”

“About damn time,” Jack says. He slings the rifle onto his back before joining Mac on the floor. “All right, Carl’s Jr, I’m gonna take a quick peak at that shoulder of yours. That okay?”

Mac nods faintly, taking a shuddering breath.

Jack scoots closer, picking at the fabric of his EOD tech’s ruined fatigues. The area around the gunshot is soaked and heavy, clinging to the skin. He peels it back as gently as possible, but it still elicits a whine from Mac’s throat

“Looks through-and-through,” Jack says. “But it’s hard to tell with all the blood…” He wipes his hands on his pantlegs, then moves away, yanking open cupboard doors.

“What…” Mac lifts his head weakly, squinting. “What are you doing?”

“Lookin’ for something.”

“For what?”

“Something to stop you from bleedin’ out; what do you think, genius?”

Mac lets his head fall back. “I’ve been through every one of those cabinets, Jack. They’re empty.” He sighs, and when Jack peers at him, he finds the kid’s eyes closed. “On a totally unrelated note, what’s the ETA on that MedEvac?”

Jack grimaces. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to mention this. “Well, uh…” He stops digging through the cupboards and turns halfway back. “I called a few minutes ago to ask and…”

Mac opens one eye, expectantly.

“And, uh…it’s gonna be a bit.”

Mac frowns. “How long? Base camp’s only twenty-five minutes from here.”

“I know, but, uh…as it turns out, that IED you just disarmed wasn’t the only one they found.” Jack scooches back over, resuming pressure on the wound.

Mac’s eyes widen. “It was an organized attack.”

“Yeah. Way I hear it, they got somethin’ like five or six other teams out right now cleaning up bombs scattered all over the area. None of ‘em have gone off yet, but three teams have faced hostiles.” Jack scrubs his chin on his shoulder. “Them medics are plenty busy at the moment.”

Mac mutters something that might be a swear, but it’s too soft to hear. “Okay…” he says lowly. “We’ll just have to do this another way, then.”

“Do what?”

“Let me see your gun.”

Jack draws back, wearing a deep-ass frown. “Pardon _moi_?”

Mac might have smiled if his shoulder didn’t hurt so damn bad. Instead, he sighs and inclines his head toward the rifle on Jack’s back. “Your gun, let me see it for a second. Or, actually, just a couple of the bullets.”

“What in the hell do you need bullets for?”

Mac cringes, sucking air through his teeth. “ _Jack_. Just give me some bullets!”

“All right, all right. Testy.” His hands stick in the blood—Mac’s blood—but he obediently grabs one of the extra clips off his belt, popping two bullets out and handing them over.

Mac makes to grab them, but misses completely. His eyes are fluttering again, so Jack grabs his hand and pushes the rounds into his palm, closing his fingers around them, then gives the kid’s cheek some light slaps to wake him up.

“Stay awake,” he says sternly. “Don’t you go passing out on me, Mac.”

“Ahh…doin’ my best.” Mac goes digging in his pocket for his Swiss Army Knife, then starts popping the casings off the bullets. “Give me your hand.”

Jack holds out one hand, which is subsequently filled with black gunpowder. “Oh, wait!” he exclaims, startling Mac just as he’s about to go out again. “I saw this in a movie. You’re gonna cauterize the wound with gunpowder.”

Mac stares at him. “Uh, no… Actually, that would be a terrible idea.” He tosses the casings aside and pushes himself up, onto his elbow. “See, gunpowder doesn’t just _burn,_ it _propels._ That’s why it’s used for bullets. So, using something like that on something delicate like human flesh would probably do more damage than good. _But…_ ” He cranes his neck to see on top of the stove. “Yeah. Go dump that gunpowder into the stovetop. Then…” He has to take a break to catch his breath. “Then…go out and gather some kindling. It doesn’t have to be dry, it just has to flammable.”

Jack listens quietly, growing more confused by the second, but he’s already beginning to learn not to question. He ain’t gonna understand the reasoning behind it, but so far, Mac’s proven himself to be a pretty brainy guy. So, he does as the kid says, dumping the powder, then ducking outside and grabbing up whatever he can find: fistfuls of dry grass, a damp newspaper, some torn-up old rags…

When he’s done, he brings it back and piles it inside the oven, arranging it like a campfire, just as Mac instructs. Then, scooping the powder back into his hand, he sprinkles it on top of the nest of flammables.

“Now…” Mac’s breathing has slowed considerably in the last few minutes. He’s fading, going into shock, but fighting hard to stay awake. “This next part… _super_ dangerous…”

“Great,” Jack says, plastering on a big grin, one that he knows isn’t reaching his eyes. He’s got a real bad feeling in his gut. Like he’s watching his mouthy, brainiac bomb-geek slip away right in front of him. That can’t be allowed to happen. Jack’s been overwatch for half a dozen other EOD techs and all of them have gotten home to their families. Mac is, by far, the youngest. Ain’t no way Jack is letting him die here. “Sounds right up my alley. Lay it on me, hoss.”

Mac smiles faintly. “Okay…you need to…light the fire. But listen. It’s gonna flash…almost like an explosion… Gotta get clear, fast.”

“Noted. Will a match do?”

Mac nods, eyes slipping shut. His breath shakes.

Jack always carries matches; that’s not rare among soldiers. Especially the older ones. He digs one out, strikes it, then carefully tosses it into the oven, backing up quick like Mac said to do.

There’s a great, big puff of fire that bursts out of the oven like a small explosion. Just as Mac said. When the initial flash is done, they’re left with a controlled fire inside the oven.

“Here,” Mac’s voice rasps. From his belt, he has produced his standard issue knife. Razor-sharp for slicing on one side, serrated for sawing on the other. He hardly ever uses it, having that weird predilection for his Swiss Army Knife. But he presses the bigger blade into Jack’s hand and, careful to enunciate every word, says, “Now, I need you to stick that knife in the fire.”

Jack takes the weapon, but his stomach is sinking into the floor. “So, you are cauterizing the wound?”

“Yep.”

“Dude.” Jack holds up the knife, the very same kind he’s used a thousand times. It’s seems suddenly bigger now. Sharper. Most definitely not a medical-grade tool. “You know this is gonna suck, right?”

Mac just glares at him, so Jack winces and turns toward the oven, sticking the knife into the flame until it’s glowing bright-red.

“Okay, that’s good. It’s sterile and hot enough to close the wound.” Mac gulps, holding out his hand. But Jack doesn’t give it to him.

“Sorry, brother,” he says, grimacing. “You’re gonna have to let me do this.”

“Why?” Mac’s face is ashen, the blue of his eyes too bright against his white skin and the dark house. He’s sweaty, and shivering, and about two seconds from passing out. And he looks too young. The kid’s twenty-one, which sounds grown-up until you see him laying there, all scrawny and covered in blood.

Christ, he’s practically a child. A scary-smart, bomb-genius child.

Jack smiles, settling onto the floor next to him. “Cause I’m your oversight and I said so, got it?” Mac is staring like it’s taking time for that big computer brain of his to absorb this other side of Jack he hasn’t seen before. After all, there’s probably a real big difference between _get-your-skinny-ass-under-that-bomb-rigged-humvee-while-I-protect-you_ and _I’m-genuinely-concerned-for-your-wellbeing._

But after a second, the kid nods and stands down, letting his arms fall to the floor, and letting himself suck in a ragged breath before scrambling for purchase at the kitchen rug. He squeezes his eyes closed while Jack carefully peels the sticky fabric of the shirt away from his skin.

The coppery tang of blood is so thick in the air that it almost makes Jack sick.

Pressing down firmly on Mac’s chest to keep him still, they lock eyes for one second. Mac’s are steely, braced for the pain. He gives a barely perceptible. _I trust you. Do it._

So, Jack does it.

* * *

Two hours later, Mac’s screams are still ringing in his ears. Or maybe it’s real screaming. Hard to tell in a hospital.

Jack is hunched in a waiting room chair nursing a cup of hot tea spiced with cinnamon. He doesn’t care for it much, but the guys are making him drink it. They say it’s good for him. Calming, or some crap.

Speaking of the guys, they’re outside puffing cigarettes, waiting for news about Mac in much better humor than Jack is.

“Awe, what’s the long face, Dalton?” Randall said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that EOD punk finally grew on you.”

“Shut up, Randall.”

Truth is, yeah. Much as Jack hates to admit it, that skinny, blonde nerd _did_ grow on him.

Somehow.

And now, Jack’s sitting here in a hospital waiting room, praying that the kid is still alive to annoy him some more down the road.

He lifts the cup of cinnamon tea, takes a sip, and screws up his mouth. Tastes like he licked one of those cinnamon-scented Christmas pinecones you can get at the Dollar Store back home.

Just as he’s looking around the waiting room for a place to dump it, the double doors leading back to the surgery swing open and a man grey fatigues steps out, taking a medical mask off his face. Jack recognizes him and jumps up.

“Doc,” Jack says, heart suddenly pounding.

The doctor makes a calming gesture and smiles easily. “The surgery went incredibly well. Your partner is resting now; he will make a full recovery.”

“Oh—” Jack doubles, suddenly lightheaded with relief. “Thank you,” he says.

The doctor pats him on the back. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No—no, I’m fine. I just—” He looks up. “Can I see him?”

“Go on back.”

Just then, Randall and the other guys come thundering inside, having spotted the doc. “Well?” Randall asks, eyes wide. “Is he—”

“He’s fine,” Jack says, his laugh sounding practically hysterical. “The little nerd’s gonna be just fine.”

The guys whoop and holler until the doc hushes them sternly. “Please!” he snaps. “This is still a hospital!”

“Sorry,” Jack says sheepishly.

“That’s all right. You can go back now. _Just_ you.” He shoots a look at the guys, who are grinning bashfully.

Jack says his goodbyes to his friends and heads toward the double doors. Just as he’s about to pass through them, he hears one of them say, “You ask me, MacGyver’s a hero. Kid risked bleeding to death to disarm that IED. That takes a hell of a lot of guts.”

The doors close and Jack follows the doctor to Mac’s room.

Well, maybe _room_ is a bit of an exaggeration. This is still an army hospital, after all. So, it’s more like a cubicle of light-blue curtains enclosing a bunch of machines, a couple of plastic folding chairs, and of course a bed, upon which is the little knucklehead himself.

“Oof,” Jack says before he can stop himself. It’s accurate, though.

Mac looks like hell in a handbasket. All pale, with his hair slicked back out of his face, oxygen tubes in his nose, an IV sticking out of his arm. His shoulder is wrapped in thick, white bandages and set in a dark-blue sling to keep it still.

The tubes coming out of his arm are attached two a whole slew of bags. One is clear, returning some of the hydration he lost bleeding out in the desert. Another is red. Blood transfusion. The others…he has no idea. Antibiotics, probably. Maybe pain medicine.

Sensing him, Mac opens his eyes, but only to slits. He’s groggy, still half-drugged from the surgery. But a tiny smile ghosts on his mouth. “Hey.”

Jack smiles too, pulling up a plastic chair. “Hey, man. How you feeling?”

He hums, shifts a bit. “Better than before.”

“Ha, yeah I bet you are. Look at you; you’re plugged into so many machines and tubes you might as well be in _The Matrix._ ”

“Yeah, well…” Mac shifts again and Jack thinks about telling him to knock it off, but he holds his tongue. “I’d happily take the blue pill if it meant getting back to base sooner.”

Jack blinks. “You serious?”

“What?”

“Well—” Now it’s Jack’s turn to squirm. “It’s just that I’ve met a lot of guys whose brush with death wasn’t nearly as close as yours, and…”

“And they weren’t exactly eager to get back into the thick of things?”

He nods.

Mac shrugs. “What can I say,” he mumbles. “I hate sitting still. Drives me nuts.” He’s stretching again, and only then does Jack notice how very not-asleep he seems. In fact, he’s practically wide awake.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“You mean the anesthetics? Nah.” He pushes himself higher into almost a sitting position. “I’ve always been that way, even when I was a kid. They knock me out okay, but once I wake up, I’m awake. I’m not tired at all.”

“That’s crazy.”

Mac gives him one of those elusive grins. “Sucks, too. I’m bored out of my mind in here. I wish I had a paperclip or something.”

“Oh! That reminds me.” Jack stands up, which is awkward in the small space, and digs in his pocket. He plops the item in Mac’s lap and watches the recognition and relief wash over his face like a tidal wave.

“Hey!” With his good hand, he picks up the cherry-red Swiss Army Knife. “I thought this got left behind.” He looks up at Jack, his smile wide open and brilliant. “Thanks, man.”

“And—” Jack digs into his other pocket.

Mac raises his eyebrow. “There’s more?”

“What can I say?” Jack takes it out and sets it on Mac’s open palm, beside the knife. “Jack Dalton is the gift that keeps on givin’, buddy.”

Mac laughs, which is probably not too great, considering how he winces after – but it’s kind of worth it. Jack grabs the table attached to the hospital bed and swings it around, over Mac’s legs so he can set the knife and the deck of cards down.

“I figured we could play some poker or something, keep that big brain of yours occupied until it can get back to disarming bombs. If you’re feelin’ up to it, of course.”

“Sounds great!” Mac says enthusiastically.

While Jack deals them in, the kid goes quiet. So quiet that he has to peer over the top of the cards to see what he’s doing.

Mac is turning the Swiss Army Knife around in his good hand, rubbing his thumb against the smooth, red casing. The look on his face is wistful, and distantly sad.

“So,” Jack says, picking up his hand of cards. “Whose knife is that?”

“Mine.” The kid smirks, studying his own hand, which he has to set on his lap and balance against the side of the table, since he’s only got one set of fingers to play with.

“Har-har. Who gave it to you?”

“My grandpa. He, uh, he raised me for most of my life. Gave me this knife on my tenth birthday, told me it had a tool for every problem. So far, he’s been right.”

“Sounds like a cool dude,” Jack says appreciatively.

“He was.” Mac smiles. “He’s probably the reason I joined the army.”

“Well, then.” Jack picks up his hand of cards like it’s a glass of champagne. “To Mac’s awesome granddad, whose grandson saved a whole lot of lives today.”

Mac chuckles and taps his own hand against Jack’s. “And to Sergeant Jack Dalton,” he adds, eyes glimmering and healthy. “Who is one _hell_ of an overwatch.”

“Damn right, son.”

They share a good laugh and keep on playing cards.

A week later, Mac is discharged from the army hospital and driven back to base camp with orders for light duty. Jack argues that _all_ these bomb-geeks do is light-duty, but his CO doesn’t get the joke.

Fortunately, Mac does.

And even more, fortunately, their partnership—whether it be out of gratitude or a newfound appreciation for each other—is a lot easier after that day


End file.
